I am that tin of tapioca
That nobody wants
Battered, bent, my label peeling off
My shelf-date past and eat-by nearly gone
Even the drunks from the pub do not want me
I will hide at the back of the shelf
Behind the slimming products
And the healthy option packets of pasta
The stackers will not get me
I will be not be consigned
To the reduced stock shelf just yet
A dodgy brand surrounded
By taped boxes and loners, loose bags
The multitude of skinflints and bargain hunters
Will not scrutinise me, weight me up
Bang me back down on the metal slab
Until, one day
When I am completely
Defunct, past it, out-of-date
The stackers will throw me
Into the gaping maw of a dust-cart
Wasted and unwanted.
End.
